Zombies Don't Eat Papaya

I'd been walking around like a **zombie** all week, surviving on three hours of sleep and caffeine. Junior year was absolutely destroying me, and I was just going through the motions—shuffling to classes, staring at my phone, pretending to care about AP Chem. But today was different. Today was **baseball** tryouts.

Coach Miller blew his whistle, and my heart did that nervous flutter thing. I'd been playing since I was seven, but varsity was a whole new level. The social hierarchy at school literally revolved around sports—who made the team, who sat the bench, who quit to join the robotics club instead.

"Alright ladies, show me what you've got!" Miller yelled.

I stepped into the batter's box, fingers gripping the bat so tight my knuckles turned white. The pitcher wound up and threw a fastball right down the middle. I swung and—CRACK. Perfect hit. I rounded first base, grinning like an idiot.

That's when I saw her. Maya Rodriguez, standing near the dugout, holding a weird-looking fruit. A **papaya**. What?

"Nice swing," she said, taking a bite. "Want some? It's actually fire."

I laughed, breathless. "What is that?"

"Papaya. My abuela brings them from the mercado downtown. They taste like summer and sunshine, but better." She handed me a piece.

I took a bite. Sweet, musky, totally unfamiliar. Not bad, actually.

"Weird, right?" She grinned. "Like that time Riley tried to fight that **bear** at camp?"

I nearly choked on the fruit. "Riley fought a BEAR?"

"Okay, it was a cub. But still." She shrugged. "Anyway, you made the team. I can tell."

"How?"

"You've got that look. Like you're ready to fight bears and eat weird fruit. The zombie look is gone."

I realized she was right. For the first time in months, I actually felt present. Not going through the motions, not on autopilot. Just there.

"Thanks," I said, grinning. "For the fruit. And the reminder."

"Anytime, Zombie Boy." She winked. "See you at practice."